


running a little latte

by amazingpages



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Boners, Derek Hale is a Tease, Flirting, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Runner!Derek, Stiles is shameless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 22:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15958664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingpages/pseuds/amazingpages
Summary: When Stiles gets a job at the local coffee shop for the summer between college semesters, he expects a lot of things. One thing he doesn’t expect, however, is Derek Hale. So Stiles is completely unprepared for when the guy starts coming to the cafe after his morning run, every day, without fail.





	running a little latte

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses for this nonsense, but I hope you all enjoy it nonetheless! :P

When Stiles gets a job at the local coffee shop for the summer between college semesters, he expects a lot of things. Battle scars, for one, since nothing he’s tried has ever been able to tone down the natural flailing and clumsiness of his limbs. Boredom is another, because a guy can only make so much soy, frappe, special order nonsense before wanting to drown himself in scalding hot coffee. Stiles even expects the occasional phone number, scribbled on a napkin and slid covertly across the countertop by guys or girls who think his clumsy, awkward charm intriguing. He’s yet to experience this particular point, but two out of three is pretty standard.

 

One thing he doesn’t expect, however, is Mr. Sweaty, Toned, and Gorgeous. So Stiles is completely unprepared for when the guy starts coming to the cafe after his morning run, every day, without fail. And practice _does not_ make perfect, because no matter how hard Stiles tries to be suave and nonchalant, seven times out of ten he spills or knocks something over whenever the hot athlete walks through the doors each morning.

 

The first time Stiles notices him, he doesn’t even realize the guy is a runner.

 

Mr. STG actually catches Stiles’ eye because he is wearing a fanny pack. An honest-to-goodness _fanny pack_ , for fuck’s sake, like he just walked (or ran, apparently) straight out of a nineties sitcom. Stiles knows they’re coming back in style, but he can’t help but stare a little in fascination. The tacky thing even has an attachment for a water bottle in the back. He’s working up to a good joke or two as the guy approaches the counter, but stops short when the previous customer moves completely out of the way. Because maybe Stiles had only seen the right half of the guy at first and been too quick to judge based on the fanny pack. His mouth goes a little dry when he sees the veritable Greek god standing before him, sweat making his tanned skin shine a little, and Stiles can’t do much more than stare dumbly when the guy gives his order.

 

“Can I have a name for your order, please?” Stiles asks hoarsely. He ignores the fact that they never ask for customer’s names—because this isn’t fucking Starbucks—and that the guy seems to know that as well, if the raised brows are any indication.

 

But Stiles still considers it a success when the guy grunts out a rough, “Derek.”

 

 _Derek_.

 

At least now he’ll know what to call out when he jerks off later.

 

He doesn’t have much time to recover from his blatant staring either—only as long as it takes to fill up a small to-go cup, because Derek apparently drinks his coffee strong and black with none of the frilly added shit. Stiles isn’t sure that coffee is really the best drink to have after a workout, but he definitely isn’t going to point this out. When Derek turns to go after paying, Stiles sees that the fanny pack is dragging down one side of Derek’s shorts a bit, revealing a very toned hip. He whimpers a little, silently promising to never make fun of fanny packs ever again if Derek will come into the cafe dressed like this every day for the rest of the summer.

 

***

 

When Derek shows up again the next day, Stiles zeroes in on him immediately as he walks through the doors. He only half listens to the old woman at the counter rambling off a complicated order, his gaze focused on Derek in all of his sweaty, fanny pack glory. Stiles decided yesterday (after concocting many elaborate fantasies) that anyone as sexy as Derek has a right to wear whatever the hell he wants, fanny pack or not. Personally, Stiles would have gone with not, as in _nothing at all_ , but beggars can’t be choosers. He’s settled for less in the past.

 

He almost manages to complete the woman’s entire order without any mishaps whatsoever. It would be quite the accomplishment, given his track record. But his success is foiled entirely when Derek, who is waiting innocently at the end of the line, decides that his thirst must be quenched _right this second_ rather than waiting for a cup of coffee. Derek twists around at the waist, reaching one arm behind himself to grab at the water bottle hanging right above his ass.

 

Not only does Stiles grow a newfound appreciation for Derek’s obliques—that tight tank top leaves absolutely _nothing_ to the imagination—but his love for fanny packs grows ever more. Thank fuck for fanny packs with attached bottle straps. Stiles begins to think of other far more enjoyable ways that Derek’s reach around technique could be put to good use, and it’s exactly those thoughts that has Stiles spilling warm milk all over his forearm and making an absolute fool of himself.

 

It’s hard to ignore Derek after that, especially when he doesn’t even bother to drink properly from the bottle. It’s a testament to Stiles’ concentration that he focuses on remaking the customer’s drink and _not_ on the fact that Derek’s squirting water straight into his mouth, head tipped back and neck exposed in a tempting stretch of muscle.

 

Well. He can’t be blamed for glancing up a few times.

 

***

 

One of the reasons so many people frequent this particular coffee shop isn’t because it’s the only one in Beacon Hills. Well, that’s _part_ of the reason. But a lot of the appeal comes from the views as well. The shop is located on top of a hill, and the three-hundred-sixty degrees of windows offers up a gorgeous view of the nearby preserve and other nature-tastic scenery. This also means that Stiles can see customers coming from a mile away and goof off when nobody’s around to harp on him for it.

 

It’s a pretty slow Wednesday morning, and Stiles is sitting on a stool behind the counter playing QuizUp on his phone—he’s totally whipping Scott’s ass in Star Wars trivia—to kill time. He really only glances up by chance, but when he does his game with Scott is completely forgotten.

 

Derek is back this morning, as usual, but Stiles has lost track of time. The reason for his gaping isn’t just Derek’s presence (despite how splendid it may be). No, he’s simply struck dumb by the _sight_ of Derek as he powers up the hill that leads to the coffee shop. Normally Stiles doesn’t have a chance to notice Derek until he’s already inside because he’s busy catering to customers and filling orders.

 

Not today.

 

Stiles stares blatantly as the incline of the hill forces Derek to run on his toes, accentuating those firmly muscled calves. His arms swing diligently as he runs, drawing Stiles’ gaze upwards to the rippling muscles of his shoulders, and suddenly Stiles is breathing as heavily as if _he_ were the one running up a hill. He knows if that were the case he’d look like he was on the verge of cardiac arrest, but Derek makes it look so damn sexy even while covered in a fine sheen of sweat. The look on his face is one of concentration, and Stiles imagines the firm set of those lips in a much different fashion, rubbing enticingly against his own skin. Fuck, what he would give for some beard burn right now.

 

By the time Derek makes it all the way to the top of the hill, Stiles’ khakis are uncomfortably tight and he has to hide behind the counter to avoid the inevitable awkwardness that stems from having a raging hard-on for a customer. A customer who is practically a stranger, when all is said and done.

 

“Hey,” Stiles squeaks out when Derek enters the empty shop.

 

Derek acknowledges him with a nod, still catching his breath.

 

Sweaty and out of breath brings so many other things to Stiles’ mind that do nothing to tone down his boner; it’s really just _unfair_.

 

“The usual?” Stiles finally asks.

 

“I’m actually pretty hungry,” Derek replies, eyes scanning the contents of the display case.

 

 _So am I_ , Stiles thinks, but it’s definitely not for food. He’s trying not to stare at the way Derek’s nipples are pebbled enticingly beneath his thin tank top and failing miserably. The burst of cool air inside the shop is doing wonders for Stiles’ fantasy. Derek’s voice jolts him out of his daydreaming.

 

“Stiles?”

 

Stiles’ gaze jerks guiltily up to Derek’s face. “You know my name?”

 

Derek smirks like he knows _exactly_ what Stiles has been focused on and points at the name tag on Stiles’ shirt. _Duh_.

 

“Oh. Right.” He scrambles for something else to say and just settles on, “What can I get for you?”

 

“What’s your favorite thing here?” Derek asks.

 

He’s still smirking at Stiles and that small quirk of his lips is so distracting that Stiles blurts out, “You.” Immediately following he adds, “Um, I mean, _you_ ’d really like the cranberry orange muffins. We call them crack muffins because they’re so addicting.”

 

Derek doesn’t seem at all fazed by Stiles’ rambling. He’s actually looking more amused by the second. “Alright. I’ll try the crack muffins.”

 

Stiles scrambles to fill Derek’s order, grateful for the reprieve even as his fingers fumble with the door to the glass display case. When he finally manages to wrap up a few of the mini-muffins, he passes them over the counter in exchange for Derek’s money, his eyes trained on the counter. Maybe if he doesn’t make eye contact, then he can ignore the way Derek’s currently tearing pieces of the muffin away and slipping them into that sinful mouth.

 

Stiles can feel Derek’s eyes on him and is struggling to ignore the image of Derek licking muffin crumbs from his fingers. He’s _sure_ Derek is teasing him on purpose, and it makes counting the correct change extremely difficult. Just as Stiles is weighing the pros and cons of simply leaping over the counter and kissing those cranberry-stained lips, a group of giggling teenagers enter the cafe and effectively break his trance.

 

He quickly shoves Derek’s change into his hand, clearing his throat awkwardly as though that would erase the blush currently blooming across his cheeks in full-force.

 

“You were right,” Derek says as he turns to leave.

 

Stiles looks up, finally meeting Derek’s gaze with his own. He’s not expecting the reply, or for Derek to be watching him so intensely.

 

“I’m definitely addicted.”

 

***

 

Stiles remembers making fun of the track team back in high school. They’d prance around the track at the same time as lacrosse practice was held, looking like a bunch of bumbling fawns with their awkward limbs and ridiculously short shorts. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He knows when to own up to his mistakes though, because judging all runners based on that train wreck alone was a completely rash decision.

 

For the most part, male short shorts belong a few decades in the past or in the trash can, because _nobody_ wants to see that much junk on display at any given time. But with Derek? Bring on the exhibition. Stiles has spent more than one day at work admiring the muscular thighs, artfully framed ass, and tell-tale bulge that are put on glorious display by Derek’s running shorts, but today is a particularly special occasion.

 

Normally, Derek will walk around a bit or jog lightly in place to give himself a cool-down from his run before entering the shop. It doesn’t take long, so if Stiles notices he tends not to pay much attention until Derek is inside and much closer. Today, however, Derek must have really pushed his limits, because instead of coming inside after his cool-down Derek begins stretching right on the side of the road.

 

Now, Stiles knows a good stretch when he sees one. He had been on a lacrosse team where most of the players learned how to half-ass it whenever Finstock got distracted ranting about his grandmother or whatever other insults he’d come up with that day. These are no half-assed stretches. When Derek gracefully begins by arching his back, forcing his chest out as his hands link behind him to stretch his shoulders, Stiles can only stare in unfettered appreciation. He’s lucky he isn’t holding any cups of coffee, or they’d for sure be on the ground right now.

 

He thinks it’s a little unfair that Derek is doing this sexy routine on the side of the road for anyone to see (Stiles would much prefer a private show), but it allows him an exceptional view of Derek’s tight ass when he steps forward into a lunge, so Stiles can’t exactly complain. Stiles actually lets out a breathy little moan when Derek throws one leg straight onto the bench on the sidewalk, stretching both his hamstring and Stiles’ imagination when those shorts are pulled higher up Derek’s leg. He has to snap out of it when a customer comes up for a refill, but that’s probably a good thing considering he is on the verge of sprouting another awkward boner at work and two days in one week is just ridiculous, really.

 

Stiles adjusts his junk surreptitiously while he’s facing away from the counter and he’s surprised when he turns around and finds Derek already inside and in line. He quickly hands the woman her refill and ushers her along so he has an unadulterated view of Derek’s fine body as he approaches the counter.

 

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles greets nonchalantly, trying desperately not to blush. He’s grown accustomed to being a little flustered in Derek’s presence, but today is more difficult for obvious reasons. Not to mention the embarrassing disaster of their previous encounter. Hopefully Derek doesn’t notice. More likely than not, Derek _does_ notice but opts to ignore it entirely, kind of like he’s been ignoring Stiles’ terrible jokes all summer long.

 

“Stiles,” Derek replies, watching him intently.

 

Stiles already has a to-go cup in his hands and sets to work pouring the freshly brewed coffee, making quick work of snapping on a lid and sliding a cardboard sleeve around the hot cup. Sliding it across the counter towards Derek, he holds his hand out for payment only to choke in surprise as Derek cups the bottom of Stiles’ hand in his own and presses a five dollar bill into his palm, holding on for a little longer than necessary.

 

“Keep the change.”

 

Derek walks away without a backward glance, but Stiles is still standing there in shock as he debates between never washing that hand again or slipping out the back door and jerking off furiously behind the dumpster to fantasies of Derek touching him again.

 

Stiles takes his break.

 

***

 

Stiles realizes, of course, that his crush on Derek is getting a little out of hand. He feels far more disappointed than he should when Derek doesn’t show up for coffee the next day, and the break in routine gives him a chance to reevaluate his life choices. The evaluation lasts about ten seconds as he decides that any sex is good sex, even if it’s just fantasies of Derek that don’t go beyond Stiles and his own hand, but he gives his self-assessment a solid effort. Those thoughts certainly don’t involve any sort of reform either, because as soon as he sees Derek running the following morning, any guilty thoughts flee his head in the wake of admiring Derek’s blazing hot bod.

 

Derek’s a little early this morning, which means he must’ve pushed his running time a little. It’s no skin off Stiles’ nose, since watching Derek outside, hunched over, and holding his knees as he gasps for breath...well, that’s an image Stiles won’t readily give up. He’s pretty sure most runners don’t look half as good after running their asses off like that, especially since most people in Derek’s current pose tend to typically follow it with some unseemly retching (Stiles knows this from personal experience). But there’s something weirdly attractive about watching the sweat drip off the end of Derek’s nose as he bends towards the ground. Derek’s heavy breaths have his rib cage expanding and contracting with each gulp of air, his chest moving fast and hard enough that Stiles can easily picture Derek doing the same thing above him in bed after a round of _very_ acrobatic sex.

 

Derek soon catches his breath enough to stand upright, but Stiles cleans the coffee pot on the counter slowly so he can continue watching Derek. Derek’s hands are now braced on either hip, chest still thrust out with each inhale as he looks up to the sky and closes his eyes. The pose in the early morning light outlines his body beautifully, and Stiles admires the view until Derek finally decides to come inside.

 

Even after almost a month of ogling Derek after his runs, Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen Derek with anything other than a neutral expression on his face, apart from the one smirking incident that Stiles tries not to think about. So the small smile and look of pride and satisfaction is a little surprising and _a lot_ attractive.

 

“Good run?” Stiles asks.

 

“Very.” Derek’s smile quirks up a little on one side as Stiles pushes an already-made coffee across the counter. “The great view as I run definitely helps.”

 

Stiles may be biased, but he thinks his view from in here is far superior to any outdoor landscape.

 

***

 

Seeing Derek after his runs has become so routine that Stiles honestly isn’t sure what to do when Derek doesn’t show up for two days. Is he taking a day off? Having a cheat day? Stiles is pretty sure people do that, not that he really has any experience with it. If his diet of curly fries and pizza are any indication, _every_ day is a cheat day in Stiles’ world.

 

Then another thought occurs to him. What if Derek is sick or dying? Would anyone even know? Is Stiles the only person Derek sees every day who would check up on him? Should he call 9-1-1?

 

Stiles quickly realizes his obsessive thoughts (and obsession in general) have gotten way out of control and puts a plug in that line of thought. Besides, what would he even say? _Oh, hey, dad. This sinfully hot guy who comes into the cafe every day isn’t here, so he’s probably dead. Also, I’m lowkey obsessed with him and I only know his first name. Good talk._

 

Yeah. That would go over well.

 

Just as Stiles is debating with himself about his sanity (which, in and of itself is a little questionable), who should walk in the door but the devil himself. Not only that, but Derek isn’t wearing his usual running outfit, fanny pack, and layer of sweat. Instead he’s sporting black pants, a plain white t-shirt, and a leather jacket, looking like he walked straight out of a GQ photoshoot. The aviator sunglasses Derek takes off aren’t doing anything to keep Stiles’ jaw off the floor either.

 

If Stiles thought the stretches and the running and the sweating were bad, this is _so_ much worse. At the end of the day, confidence is undeniably sexier than any workout and Derek’s sending out waves of it. He casually tucks his sunglasses into the collar of his v-neck, slowly scanning the room until his gaze lands on Stiles.

 

Stiles feels pinned behind the counter by those eyes alone, while Derek strolls up to the counter like he hasn’t a care in the world. Stiles, on the other hand, has _a lot_ of cares. The primary one being the hint of chest hair peeking out above the collar of Derek’s shirt. He can imagine how soft it would feel if he just nuzzled it a little bit—

 

“...any more of them?”

 

Realizing Derek’s been talking to him while Stiles shamelessly objectifies him sends his cheeks aflame. He clears his throat roughly, buying a little time before croaking out a weak, “I’m sorry?”

 

“I said I can’t stop thinking about those muffins. Do you have any more of them?”

 

Stiles has already begun making Derek’s coffee order out of habit, but he stops and glances over at the small display case that very clearly has nothing of the sort inside of it. Their customer favorites tend to sell out early on in the day.

 

“Um...no? Those are all out for the day,” Stiles replies nervously. “But I could offer you something else?”

 

Derek leans forward on the counter, his jacket stretching enticingly over his broad shoulders. “What exactly are you offering?”

 

Oh, hell. Is...is Derek _flirting_ with him? Alarms are sounding in Stiles’ head. In all of his fantasies, this was not a scenario he’d prepared for with any measure of possibility. He realizes he’s been standing silent for far too long when Derek’s grin grows, making Stiles feel even more like prey. Honestly, what is his life coming to?

 

He quickly finishes Derek’s coffee, snapping a lid on the cup and sliding it across the counter. “Well, there’s...um, we’ve got quite a few—”

 

“When do you get off, Stiles?”

 

Stiles mind is already firmly located in the gutter, which is his only excuse for blurting out, “A couple times a day.” Immediately, he slaps a horrified hand over his traitorous mouth, silently thanking everything above that his boss isn’t in today. Getting fired would just be icing on the cake of this embarrassing display.

 

Derek, thank goodness, just throws his head back and laughs, taunting Stiles further with the long line of his neck and the utter shame of being the brunt of his own unsuspecting joke.

 

“Well, Stiles,” Derek finally says, grabbing his coffee and sliding a bill onto the counter in exchange. “Let me know if you need a hand.”

 

He turns away with a quick wink, effectively short-circuiting Stiles’ brain until his entire being is focused solely on the clock hanging across the way.

 

There’s no way he’ll last until close.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://miss-emrys.tumblr.com/)!


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